Harbor
by Jade Sabre
Summary: Short follow-up ficlets to my 2010 story "Falling Slowly." Snippets from the Knight-Captain's married life, mostly written when I was in the mood for cute fluff.
1. unexpected use of a chair

**Title:** Harbor

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**Prompt:** unexpected use of a chair

**Disclaimer:** Do people even still bother with these? Still don't own anything.

I have a few of these ficlets about my dear sorceress and knight floating around and figured I'd upload them for fun. Hope you enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated. :-)

* * *

**tanithar/nevalle, unexpected use of a chair**

Although it was a staple of his surroundings, one of the rocks upon which he anchored his life, Nevalle had never actually _sat_ in his wife's plushy pink armchair. He had been perfectly satisfied with the sight of _her_ sitting in it in the corner of their study, her feet tucked up underneath her dark robes, a quill stuck behind her ear as she bit her lip and read whatever report she had in her hands while he sat at his desk and snuck looks at her. She made the chair beautiful, as opposed to an affront to his austere sensibilities.

There were many such affronts in their chambers. Some, such as the lacy curtains, he merely tolerated; others, such as their delightful silk-and-goose-feather mattress, he had to concede as having appeal.

One day, while he was writing one of his many letters to Neverwinter (this one to Darmon, concerning rumors of his friend's dalliance with an ambassador from Evereska), Tanithar set down her quill and stretched. This was not unusual, nor was the fact that he stopped mid-sentence (an action he would later regret, as he always did) to watch this delightful display. Her amused glance, directed at him from half-closed eyes as she tilted her head back to increase the effectiveness of her stretch, was also nothing out of the ordinary, nor was his immediate responsive desire to carry her from the study to the bedroom and make wild sweet passionate love to her. He usually didn't so much quash the desire as file it away for future review (and it was always sweeter for the delay), but sometimes, when Tanithar had that glinting gleam in her green eyes, he felt his resolve slip, just a little.

She looked as if she wanted it to slip. That, too, was not unusual. She enjoyed watching him slip. He usually didn't mind.

Today, however, Darmon's letter was merely a brief social respite from a tedious stack of twenty letters, ten of which were more-or-less answered and another ten of which concerned matters of lesser importance which nonetheless required carefully worded answers—

"You look tense," his wife purred from her curled-up-cat pose.

He shook his head, the very motion loosening the muscles of his neck. "Just a lot of work to do," he said.

"That's all you ever do anymore, work," she said, although that was hardly true; all he'd ever _done_ was work, and suffer her as a distraction.

"Distraction" was perhaps a light term to describe the woman who owned his heart and soul, but he was trying to distance himself from the situation. "It's important," he insisted.

This usually was enough to deter her; she compromised, and said, "At least let me rub your shoulders."

"Of course," he said with a smile, and within moments the coolness of her hands was bleeding through his tunic and onto the muscles of his shoulders, and he paused long enough to turn his head and kiss the fingers of her lifted hand before returning to chastising Darmon for being so silly as to fall for a beautiful elf who no doubt wanted nothing more than to force him into a politically embarrassing situation.

"Your wording is a little harsh," she said, propping her pointed chin on his shoulder.

"This is a private letter," he told her. It was a paradox—one of many in their marriage—that they still maintained the illusion of privacy; they both understood the fine and subtle line between private and secret, and tried to avoid the latter, and furthermore their mingled confidences only produced a more united privacy against the prying eyes of the outside world.

"Mm-hm," she said. "Please tell me Darmon was exaggerating when he said they spent four _hours_ on the chair in his office."

"Of course he wasn't," he said, almost wistfully. "Darmon never has to lie about such things."

"What a horrible idea," she said, recoiling, her hands slipping away. "I've seen the chair in his office. It's narrow and wooden and awful, and no woman could possibly enjoy that."

"She didn't have to be sitting in it," he pointed out, only blushing a little. "Besides, who wants to have sex in a chair?"

The glint in her eyes gleamed in her voice as she said, "Oh, I don't know. It could be fun."

He sighed, set down his quill, and twisted in his chair to look at her. "All right," he said.

"Don't sound so resigned," she said, failing to frown at him. "I haven't said anything."

"You're thinking it," he said, lifting his chair off the ground and turning it until it faced her. "So, come, have at me."

"And suddenly I realize exactly how I fell in love with you," she said. "Clearly, you seduced me with your passionate words."

He reached for her hands, but she retreated. "Your chair is even worse than Darmon's," she said. "I don't care which of us is sitting in it, I refuse to waste my time trying to conjure the heights of ecstasy while confined to such a torturous device."

"Which proves my point exactly," he said. "Why would anyone want to have sex in a chair?"

"Well, not just _any_ chair," she conceded, her eyes casting around the room while his stomach seized with a horrible sense of foreboding.

"Not—"

"Oh yes," she said, reaching for his hands and tugging him to his feet, her eyes so wicked that his breath stopped and his knees went weak and he nearly said _Forget the chair, the floor will do_ (which, in his defense, was a semi-usual response on both their parts, and the reason Tanithar had insisted on the soft, plushy carpet under their feet).

She took cruel advantage of his inability to voice further protests by lightly shoving him, and he stumbled backwards into her pink plushy chair, and his immediate impression was _softness_, and then the sort of magical aura which he recognized as hers, so strongly cast that it made him itch. The itch combined with a sensation of slowly sinking into the fabric's no doubt carnivorous flesh, which led to an ill-planned escape attempted cut short by Tanithar's mouth roving wildly across his general facial area. He managed to catch her lips with his own and grip her waist as she hiked up her robes in order to settle on his lap; this action very nearly made him forget his desire to escape, but the situation was so unusual that he instead marshaled his strength and continued distracting her with kisses (warm, sweet kisses, with the slight metal of ink on her tongue).

He lost his grip on her waist and her mouth as her robes came over her head; it would have been less distressing had the sensation of sinking into the chair's maw not increased as she pushed herself against him. Oh, he appreciated his wife's state of dress, but the lack of blood flow to his brain prevented him from realizing that her chair had never eaten her and would probably not eat him and furthermore chairs don't actually _eat_ people at all. Of course, he was married to a sorceress, and sometimes chairs did not behave for sorceresses in the same way they behaved for normal people. Just because it hadn't eaten her didn't mean he would be spared that fate. There was only one thing to do.

Luckily, he was married to a sorceress, and she was no match for his arms around her and the full strength of his body as he dedicated it towards rolling them over so that she could placate the hungry chair. Tanithar was busy divesting him of his clothing, so it was only the slightest of muffled cries that accompanied this motion, and then his skin no longer itched and he was no longer in danger of being eaten and they were both naked and he was able to devote his full attention to that fact.

Of course, his rolling had put them rather more _across_ the chair than _in_ it, and in the course of their exertions they pushed themselves to a precarious balance across the arms of the chair without really noticing until Tanithar's legs, usually positioned such that her ankles were near her ears, were suddenly flipping them _over_ the arm of the chair, and her husband was helpless to do anything but follow her, their heads hitting the floor with rather loud and painful _thud_s.

They lay in a tangle of limbs, wincing and moaning into each other's mouths, until such time as Nevalle managed to free his tongue from hers. He took a breath to speak, but she said, "Don't."

"I—"

"You're right, I'm wrong, sex in chairs is a horrible idea." She wriggled her arm out from under him and turned his head, and blew gently on the swelled spot where his skull had connected with the stone through the carpet. Her icy breath soothed the pain, but she grimaced when he touched her head in return.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh, don't be," she said, smiling with her pain as she half-sat-up, stretching one of her legs until it disappeared under the chair as she searched for...something. Her movements revived his momentarily stunned libido, and her words did little to help. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. Ah, there it is."

He watched as she dragged a bag from under the chair with her toes; as soon as he could see what she did, he stretched his toes to help her, and the ensuing game of footsie detained them for several minutes, until she strained her neck to see better and hissed in pain again. She abandoned their game in favor of summoning the bag with a wave of her hand; from its depths she produced a healing potion, which she uncorked and drank.

"How old—"

"Don't ask," she said, wiping her mouth and tossing the flask aside. It occurred to him to tell her he might not want to kiss her for fear of—but she beat him to his protestations, and the potion was one of Sand's; he knew, because it tasted of mint and stone.

"Now," she said, "shall we try for the bed?"

Nevalle looked at his wife, pale cheeks flushing, hair stuck to the sweat on her face, limbs woven through his, eyes mischievous, mouth smiling, hands drifting across his skin. "I think," he said, brushing her hair behind her ear, lingering on its subtle point and grinning as her eyes half-closed and she hummed on instinct (and usually she called this a cheap trick, but now she didn't seem to mind), "the floor will do."


	2. intelligent decisions

**Title:** Harbor

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**Prompt:** intelligent decisions

Takes place during chapter seven of "Falling Slowly."

* * *

**tanithar, intelligent decisions**

Nasher offered her a place in the Nine.

She didn't understand, at first; she stared at him, wondering if she'd heard correctly. Though outwardly she was calm, flirting with guardsmen and discreetly flicking zombie ichor from her robe, her mind buzzed through the secrets she'd found under the Castle, the fact that a Shadow Reaver would be so bold as to attack Lord Nasher while _she_ was present, the greenish tinge to Sir Nevalle's skin when she'd left him. The only time she'd slept in the last week was under his watchful eye, and she didn't want—well, she was exhausted, and she owed him for the rest.

He was standing with the others, a small smile on his face as Nasher settled knighthood on her shoulders like a cloak, though it felt like a fishing line from her childhood sinking its hook into her Keep and twining itself around the shard in her heart. And then Nasher kept speaking, and she did not know how to respond.

Her immediate response was to run, to disappear in a haze of invisibility and slip out the castle doors in the lingering chaos of the attack. It was an impossible option, of course, and unbefitting a knight besides; still, she ached to avoid the decision. She had so many other cares, and now Nasher asked to add himself to the list. And her mind, open to change, flirting with possibility, pictured herself taking her place in the circle, his burdens on her shoulders as her shoulders touched—

"My lord," she said, rebelling against the image, "I am no soldier."

It bought her enough time to see herself there, again, and each time her mind shied away from—it would be impossible to work with—and how would she keep her promise to Amie, if she were tethered to a lord and his keepers—and anyway—

And so she declined Nasher's offer, but the lord had his revenge; she almost changed her mind, simply to avoid yet another three-day ride in the green-faced knight's company. It was as childish a reaction as her desire to flee, and yet she could not bring herself to face him, not directly, not after his kindness in the face of her brazen attempts to escape. She didn't know how to tell Nasher he'd made a serious mistake, couldn't keep a note of fondness out of her voice as she accepted his ruling in all its wrongness. Perhaps she, too, had been wrong; and one wrong decision deserved another.

It wasn't until much, much later, lying secure in her not-so-green-faced knight's arms and watching moonlight trail across the floor of her bedchamber, that she acknowledged that perhaps Nasher had judged wisely, after all.


	3. burn

**Title:** Harbor

**Author: **Jade Sabre

**Prompt:** burn, hurt/comfort

* * *

**tanithar/nevalle, burn, hurt/comfort**

"I told you to be careful," Nevalle chided as he leaned against the doorway to the washroom, watching as his wife ran cold water over her hands, swearing. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face, but he could imagine the tight displeasure of her pursed lips, the length of her lashes as she cut her eyes at him in an unseen glare. He smiled.

"It's not just a matter of care," she said, the words coming through clenched teeth. "It was a perfectly safe fire spell. I thought we'd cleaned all of Jerro's traps out of there. How was I supposed to—_damn_ this—"

"Are you sure you don't want me to call a cleric?"

"Quite," she said, straightening and shaking her hands, flicking water in his direction and wincing. He looked upward for guidance, and she started an incantation that would no doubt cause a waterfall to materialize over his head. It was kind of her to give him time to avoid it; usually she cast spells quickly and silently and was floors away before he had time to realize he was wet.

The waterfall never came. Instead she repeated the incantation, sounding puzzled, and then a different incantation, and by the time he looked back her eyes were wide and her gestures panicked.

"I can't cast," she said, waving her hands through the air. "I can't cast. Why can't I cast?"

"I don't know," he said, and she glared at him, more fiercely than he thought he deserved.

"Helpful as always, dear," she said, and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry I'm unable to sense your magical aura—"

"There is no such thing!"

"Clearly my ignorance knows no bounds," he said, annoyed by her tone, annoyed by her annoyance, wanting her to let him fetch her a salve and put an end to the nonsense. "Since you've matters well in hand—"

"I do not," she snapped. "I can't cast! I can't even feel the Weave! I can't—"

"Then talk to a wizard," he said, turning to go, "and tell me when you've returned to rationality."

He was halfway to the door leading out of their bedroom, his steps slow, before her voice came, small: "Nevalle?"

He stopped, back to the washroom. "What?"

"Nevalle," she said, her voice still small, and quavering, "I can't do magic."

He turned to see her holding out her arms, her hands curled up at the wrist, her fingers limp and red, smarting from the burns. "It's gone," she said. "Completely. Maybe forever."

"Not forever," he said, studying the wideness of her eyes, trying to decide if she was playing him for sympathy or genuinely upset. "You'll figure out what Jerro's spell—"

"I can't do that without my magic!" she said, and before she finished speaking he closed the distance between them and closed his hands around her wrists, gently. Her face crumpled, brows drawing together and mouth turning down and tears escaping only to be pressed dry on his shirt. He pulled her close and her arms went around his neck, her hands still dangling uselessly, her shoulders shaking.

"You have the entire Cloaktower at your beck and call," he said, "and we can talk to Aimee—we can write _Sand_ a letter, if you think it might help—"

Her shoulders shook as she sniffled with laughter; he kissed the top of her head and rested his chin there, rubbing her back, up her arms. She drew back and he caught her wrists again, smiling into her watery eyes until she managed a smile in return.

"I'm sorry I snapped," she said. "It's not your fault you don't know anything useful."

"I'm touched by your heartfelt apology," he said, and she smiled again. He lifted her hands, turning her wrists to study the long red welts crisscrossing her fingers. "Do they hurt?"

"Less," she admitted, and so he brought her fingers to his mouth, and kissed the one that wore a wedding band.

She smiled at him, lovely and happy and without a trace of seduction, the smile guaranteed to melt every one of his bones; he kissed the other fingers of that hand, softly, barely brushing his lips against her skin. He kissed the back of her hand, then the palm, her skin tickling the tip of his nose as he paused to enjoy the soft-smoothness of it. She tugged that hand out of his grip, and so he started on the other one, intent on his ministrations, on the gentle tap of her fingers against his cheek as she sighed.

"Look," she said, and he opened his eyes and she held up her free hand, turning it this way and that, showing off the unblemished skin.

He blinked. "Is that..."

"Look at you," she said, brushing his hair off his forehead with her other hand; it, too, had healed, "breaking the spell with true love's kiss."

"Oh, that," he said, blushing as she smiled again. He opened his mouth to say—something—but she silenced him.

Literally.

"Oh, good," she said, clapping her hands as he moved his mouth and no sound came out. "I can cast again." Her smile was sharp with mischief. "Now, sir, you are at my mer—"

He didn't need magic to silence her, nor words; he simply had to sweep her off her feet and deposit her in the bed.


	4. baby on the doorstep

**Title: **Harbor

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**Prompt:** baby on the doorstep

**Note:** Found another one, hope you enjoy.

* * *

**tanithar/nevalle, baby on the doorstep**

"Milord," Veedle said, "not to bother you, but there's a baby on the doorstep."

Nevalle blinked sleep out of his eyes, shading them against the stream of light coming through where the master architect had poked his head through the bed hangings. "What?"

"Only we're supposed to replace the steps today, as milord kept slipping on the marble—"

"You didn't have to replace all the steps, Veedle," Nevalle said for the fifth or sixth time, mumbling the words on automatic, glancing at his wife. She'd finally managed to find a comfortable position, it seemed, and her little soft breaths were blowing hair off her face every time she exhaled. Best not wake her. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and sighed. "What's wrong with them now?"

"Nothing, the stone's fine, but you see milord, there's a baby."

Nevalle sat up. "A _what_?" Tanithar mumbled and shifted; he sighed again and said, before Veedle could open his mouth, "I'm coming. Give me a moment."

Veedle nodded; after a pause, Nevalle said, "If you would wait outside?"

"Yes, milord," Veedle said; his head disappeared, and darkness once again descended upon the bed.

"What does he want?" Tanithar said, in her octave-deeper up-before-dawn I-would-give-you-a-scowl-of-death-if-I-felt-like-l ifting-my-head morning voice.

Nevalle smoothed her hair away from her face. "I'll see to it," he said, leaning over and kissing her ear, her cheek, searching for her lips.

She refused him, burying her face in the pillow with another groan. "Would it be wrong to call for his execution?"

"Go back to sleep," he said, regretfully leaving the warmth of his blankets for the chilly floor. He dressed himself in casual clothes, pulled on his boots, and headed for the Keep's front doors.

Bevil and Kana were already there, Bevil juggling little Retta on his hip while Kana searched through the blankets piled in a basket sitting on the steps. Veedle hovered around the edges, no doubt fearful of what a baby's drool might do to his—Nevalle blinked.

"A baby," he said after a moment.

"Certainly looks like it," Bevil said, reaching up and removing Retta's finger from his ear. "Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find his parents soon."

Nevalle hadn't realized he'd looked worried. "Don't tell Tanith," he said.

"Not a word," Bevil said.

"You don't think we should tell the Knight Captain there's an abandoned child on her doorstep?" Kana said, frowning.

"No, by all means, tell her that," Bevil said, grinning into Nevalle's poorly disguised discomfort. "Although we probably ought to take it somewhere else so that Master Veedle can get to his work."

"Right," Kana said. She picked up the basket, took one look at Nevalle's face, and said, "We can handle—"

"No, no," Nevalle said, coming to himself and holding out his hands. "It was clearly left with us for a reason. It's our responsibility. I'll—" Kana placed the basket in his hands and he found himself staring down into a sleeping baby face and unable to speak.

"May I get started, milord?" Veedle asked, as Kana took Retta from Bevil's shaking-with-laughter arms.

"Y-yes," Nevalle said, his feet carrying him towards the entrance hall without further thought. He glanced behind him and said with a failed glare, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Of course, _milord_," Bevil said, still absolutely no help, while Kana simply shook her head. The doors closed behind him and he was left with the basket in his arms and no idea what to do.

That was, of course, the moment the baby decided to wake up.

**o-O-o**

"I just don't understand," Tanithar said, pacing in their bedroom as he sat on the bed next to the basket and watched her. "Someone just _left their child_ on our _doorstep_?"

"It's a fairly common practice," he said. "An impoverished mother leaves her child with the local lord, hoping he'll take it into his household and at least raise it as a servant. It's not so different from your army of hellions."

"Wolf is a perfectly respectable young man," she said, "and what do people expect _me_ to do with a baby?"

Nevalle watched her for a moment before responding. She wore a long black robe over her shift, all the fabrics diaphanous and loose, hiding any possible changes to her shape. It was there in her face, a little, a softening of the classically defined lines of her jaw, a panicked light in her eyes that matched the one in his own. "Sir Nevalle," she said, glancing at him mid-pace, an edge of irritation in her voice, "you're staring at me."

"You're distractingly beautiful," he said.

"I'm just getting started," she said, blowing her hair off her forehead in annoyance. "You wait three months, it won't be so pretty."

The baby in the basket made a noise, a sort of gurgled question; they both looked at it, breaking the queer tension building between their gazes. "Still," he said at last, "the best course of action, given that there's no note, is to deliver it to the housekeeper and tell her to care for it."

"But it was left on _my_ doorstep," she said. "What if they wanted _me_ to care for it?"

He opened his mouth, but no reassurances came; the bed sagged as she sat on the other side of the basket, peering into the baby's face. "It is cute," she said finally. "Maybe Bevil and Kana could keep it."

"All babies are cute, or so I'm told," he said. "It wouldn't be fair to ask them to do it."

"Why, because we're too afraid?" She glanced up at him, a flash of the endless depths of her knowledge—knowledge about _him_—searing his gaze.

"No," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Because you're exhausted and hungry and in no condition to take care of someone else's child." He took a deep breath and said, "You have to worry about your own, first."

She sat with her head bowed and her hands in her lap, and so he stole a peek into the basket. The baby's eyes were open and bright, its cheeks round and rosy, tufts of black hair on top of its head. He watched as it focused on his face, feather-light eyebrows wiggling as it tried to find familiarity in his features. "I'm terrified," he said, reaching out with one finger—and if he had thought his wife made his fingers feel ungainly, how much larger and clumsier were they, trying to tap a baby's nose?

There was a rustle, and her head was next to his, looking as he traced the baby's nose, the skin of her temple warm against his. "At least it's not _inside_ of you," she said, reaching out and curling a finger around his. The baby gurgled again; she whispered, "You'll be a wonderful father."

He turned his head, nudging his nose against her cheek. "I wouldn't want to do it with anyone else," he said.

"Good news!" came Bevil's voice, loud in the still silence of the room; they knocked heads as they startled and pulled away to see him standing in the doorway, grinning. "Kana found his parents. Apparently," and then he laughed, "their daughter thought if she gave the baby away no one would notice."

Nevalle felt the tension drain out of his wife's body, though only their fingers touched. Judging by Bevil's look, his own sigh of relief had been louder than he'd intended; Tanithar giggled and stood, drawing her robe closed and saying, "Didn't your mother ever teach you to knock?"

"You left the door open," he retorted, coming into the room and picking up the basket. He met Nevalle's gaze with another reassuring grin and said, "I hope you didn't get too attached."

Nevalle shook his head, and Bevil carried the unexpected visitor away, shutting the door behind him. Tanithar looked at him, and he shrugged. "I have to save it, don't I?"

"Hmph," she said. "Softie."

"Yes," he said, reaching out and catching her hand, drawing her closer. She kissed him obligingly, and he placed a hand on her belly and said, "So are you."

"Oh?" she said, drawing away and shoving him with a hand to the chest. He stumbled back to the bed and couldn't quite keep the grin off his face as she raised her eyebrow and said, "We'll see about that."


End file.
